


I Don't Wanna Die in Here

by cascading



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Chronic Illness, Gen, John Winchester Being an Asshole, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester's Visions, Unrelated Winchesters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4183389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cascading/pseuds/cascading
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's a documented flight risk. Dean tried to shoot their last master. Now they're getting bought again, and Dean thinks it's a fresh start.</p>
<p>Sam's not so sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU in which slavery, like the existence of the supernatural, is a secret kept by the hunter community. Also an AU in which Mary is a single mother, so Sam and Dean are Campbells.
> 
> Another thing I'm exploring here is the possibility that Sam's visions actually give him full-on migraines rather than brief migraine-type pain. This will include a lot of side symptoms, including some mentions of irritable bowel. Just fair warning!

When the news comes in, Dean is happy. _Happy_.

“Finally,” he says, getting up, bouncing on his toes like someone’s handed him a set of car keys. “Come on, dude, don’t be such a killjoy. We’re getting out of here, and about time.”

Dean is impossible.

Sam doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t get up, either. Just sits against the warehouse wall with his arms around his knees.

Dean switches modes. “Hey,” he says. “Sam, it’s not gonna be that bad. Aren’t you sick of this place? Six freaking months stuck in here?”

Sam is. He’s so sick of it, he can hardly get himself to eat most days. Leaving is the only thing he wants, but not like this. “That’s not the point,” he says. “Getting sold isn’t getting out, and you know it.”

“It’s a change,” says Dean.

“And it might be a bad one.” Sam sighs. “Seriously, Dean. I’m a documented flight risk and you tried to off the last guy. That’s _why_ we’ve been here for six months, remember? If somebody’s buying us, especially together, well. I’m not gonna believe they’ve got good intentions, that’s all.”

“It’s together.” Dean talks like he’s got info Sam doesn’t, but Sam knows he can’t. “I know we’re bad news, but we’re worse when they try any funny business and they know it. I ain’t letting anybody get away with that, you hear me?”

“Sure, Dean.” Sam’s pretty sure Dean will get himself killed over this one day. Or maybe get both of them killed. Somehow it doesn’t seem that bad, though.

Dean crouches down next to him then, looks him in the eye. “But hey, listen. If they don’t? If they keep us together? We gotta tone it down. _You’ve_ gotta tone it down. Might be a long time before we can work out a plan, and it’s no good pissing people off when you can keep ’em happy and off your back. This teenage sulking thing you’ve picked up? That’s gonna be more trouble than my mouthing off. And it’s just not worth it, kiddo.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “So you want me to cooperate, is that it?”

“I want you to keep your damn head down! Say _yes sir_ , can the questions, fall in line unless you’ve got a real reason to act out.”

“So, cooperate.”

“Fine! Cooperate. Whatever you wanna call it. Just quit calling attention to yourself all the freaking time.”

“Whatever,” says Sam. He shifts restlessly. “Wish they’d told us when we’re getting picked up. Weird that the buyer didn’t even wanna see us first.”

“Must’ve been an urgent thing,” Dean says. “You know, one of those over-the-phone deals. Get me two guys before I’m in town so I can keep on with my hunt.” He stands up again, goes back to bouncing on his toes. “Wonder if I’m gonna be hunting back-up. Damn, it’d be good to get some action.”

Sam already knows what he’s going to be. Intel, like always. Research, maybe, but mostly waiting around for a vision to hit. If he could get rid of the damn things, he’d do it in a heartbeat. Not just because they hurt, make him wish he had days at a time to recuperate, but because they’re the reason he and Dean and Mom ended up in this to begin with. And now Mom’s gone, probably dead, and it’s just him and Dean and the visions.

He sighs again, leaning his head against the wall. It’ll be good to be out of here, he admits to himself. Six months couldn’t get him used to the idea of belonging in a slave warehouse. Besides, there’s too many people. Not enough space. Not enough air. And on the road with a hunter again, there’ll be less surveillance. He can always try to convince Dean to run. Hide out. Look for Mom.

But they have to do it right, this time. Doing it wrong’s earned them both too many scars.

It’s a change, Dean says. And it is. Sam tries to tell himself that maybe it’ll be for the best after all.

\----

It’s another two hours before the guards come. But when they do, everybody in the place goes rigid. Sam tries not to, but he can’t help it. Especially when he knows they’re here for him.

And then it’s “Campbell, Dean,” and “Campbell, Sam,” ringing out across the room, and Dean flashes that stupid cheeky grin at him as they get their hands cuffed tight behind their backs. Screw Dean. Sam hates getting cuffed, and Dean damn well knows it too.

“Sixty seconds to a new life, huh?” Dean says, smirking at the guards. “Come on, you need some catchy slogans. It’d keep up morale.”

And Sam is the one who’s supposed to be toning it down.

Dean’s cheek gets them pushed around more that they would’ve been otherwise as they head down the corridor from the main portion of the warehouse to the little office bit that’s used for processing and customers. Sam wonders if the buyer’s there already or if they’re being brought out to wait. Neither option’s really any good, so he settles on hoping they can get it over with.

He gets his half-hearted wish. When they step through the door, there’s a hunter in a leather jacket looking over paperwork with the director. Sam knows size isn’t a guarantee of anything with hunters, but this guy’s intimidating at a look—powerfully built and pretty tall, too. Taller than Sam or Dean, although Sam at least still has time to grow. But it’s more than the muscle and height, Sam thinks. Something in the set of the shoulders, in the eyes.

The guards push a little more, and Sam and Dean get to their knees. It’s protocol, even though it’s stupid, but you don’t piss off the guys with guns unless you’ve got a point. And “kneeling is stupid” doesn’t count as a point.

The hunter looks up from his paperwork. “These the two?” he says.

The director nods. “You’ll have your hands full, Winchester, but if anyone can manage them, it’s you.”

Winchester, Sam’s heard that name before. Except what he’d heard was that Winchester worked alone. Didn’t take partners, let alone slaves. But here he is, buying them, and Sam’s got no clue how he’ll be as a master.

Winchester walks over to them. Feels Dean’s bicep. “They trained?”

“Older one’s been on a fair share of hunts. Younger’s done a few. We’ve had them here at the center for six months, and they do well with the exercise regimen. They can both handle weapons, but I wouldn’t let them unless you wanna find yourself at the wrong end of your own gun.”

Winchester ignores this. “How long’s the history?”

“Eight years. That’s when the visions started for that one.” He jerks a thumb at Sam. “School before that, single mother. Mary Campbell. She sold ’em off, probably.”

Dean tenses at that and he stares harder at the opposite wall but Sam’s head flies up and the words tumble out. “Keep her name out of your filthy mouth, you dick,” he says, “because your people took her too and you know it; you know it—”

Dean’s bumping his shoulder insistently, warning him. Sam cuts off just as one of the guards smacks him across the mouth. When he turns his head back, his jaw gets caught in a firm grip. He looks up, breathing heavy. It’s Winchester, those steely unreadable eyes digging into him, and everything smart in Sam is telling him to look away.

He doesn’t.

Winchester lets him go.

“All right,” he says. “Let’s get this deal settled. I’ve got a hunt on my hands, and a drive to get there.”

Sam steals a glance at Dean, trying to get a read on the situation. Dean gives him the _you screwed up, dude_ look, and Sam shrugs. Winchester’s not doing anything about it right now, is he? And if he decides to take it out on Sam later, well, that’s later. And he hates it when Dean makes that face, the hard cold one that he made when the director talked about Mom. He’ll take the annoyed glaring any day.

The paperwork gets settled and money changes hands. Then it’s changing from the center’s cuffs into Winchester’s, putting on stupid freaking collars (stupider than kneeling) and waiting through the talk about trackers and shock mechanisms. Sam knows he should be listening because this is what they’ll need to know to escape, but Dean’s listening for sure and probably they’ll get it all re-explained anyway, in the way people seem to think is intimidating but really is great because if they didn’t know, they’d have to figure it all out by trial and error, and that would _suck_.

And then they’re out the door, Winchester’s hands on their necks and the guards behind just for precaution, but they’re outside. Sam breathes in warm sunny air and looks over to grin at Dean.

Dean isn’t looking at him. Dean’s only looking at one thing and damn it, Sam thinks again, Dean is impossible. Grinning at that black classic car like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen, like he wants it, like he loves it.

Winchester opens the back door and Sam slides in, a little awkwardly without use of his hands. Dean comes after him, eyes wide. “Dude,” he whispers, “this is the best. So much better than the center.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “He could beat us bloody if he wants, but sure. He’s got a cool car and that’s the only thing we need.”

Then Winchester climbs in and they go silent, Sam because he doesn’t really want to test the guy’s patience any more than he already has on the first day, and Dean probably because he’s struck dumb with awe by the fact that the key’s turning in the ignition.

Dean needs to sort out his priorities.

\----

The car’s a good distraction. Times like these, Dean tries not to think too much; it just gets him into trouble. Come to think of it, that’s probably why Sam can’t get hold of himself. Too much thinking.

Still, it’s a long ride, and the nice leather seats don’t really make up for the awkward way he has to sit to keep from leaning back on his cuffed hands. He can’t spend the whole time feeling out the pulse of the engine. He’s got an urge, like an itch he can’t scratch, to get to the paper clip he keeps on the waistband of his jeans and pick out of the cuffs, but it wouldn’t do any good. He’d just have to get them locked back on before the guy noticed, because there’s no way in hell he and Sam are running tonight.

Sure, in a way, it’d be smart. Unexpected and all that. But they’ve got freaking shock collars with little trackers in them, and Dean doubts he can pick out of those using nothing but a paper clip, not with the rearview mirror right there. And if they try the first night, they’ll set a bad tone. Put the guy on edge. Get themselves watched.

It’s better to wait.

He looks over at Sam, who’s turned away so he can lean against his shoulder and look out the window. And damn it, Dean’s thinking again, but he tells himself that he really would do anything to get Sam out. Just not anything that’s gonna make it unbearable to be in while they’re in. Sam doesn’t get that. Doesn’t care, maybe. But Dean cares. And if that makes him a suck-up, so what. Everybody’s happier for it.

The car comes to a stop in a motel parking lot; the engine rolls into silence. Winchester opens his door. “Bags in the trunk,” he says, and gets out. Sam and Dean look at each other and, with a shrug, Dean turns his back to the door and feels blindly for the handle, nudging the door open with his hip. Sam gets out after him and they go around to the trunk.

Winchester barely looks up at them, just holds out a duffel bag to Sam.

Sam looks at Dean. Dean rolls his eyes back and clears his throat.

“Sorry, sir,” he says, “cuffs and carrying just don’t go together that well.”

Winchester looks up. Heaves a sigh. “Damn it,” he says. “Get back in the car, then. I’ll get a room first.”

He opens the door for them this time, making sure to lock it before he goes up to the motel’s main entrance. A few minutes later he comes back with a key, drives them over to number twenty-six, and sends Dean and Sam inside. He brings the bags in himself and then he finally looks at them, as they stand side-by-side in the middle of the room.

“Either share the bed or fight it out yourselves,” he says. “Mine’s the one by the door. And I don’t sleep so heavy you’ll be able to get the tracker or the car keys off me, so don’t think about it.”

He pulls a key from his pocket—for show, Dean’s sure; what hunter owns cuffs he can’t pick?—and springs them. Dean first, then Sam. Dean rubs his raw wrists. Sam, though, Sam’s stubborn. He clenches his fists by his sides like there’s something to fight about. Which there isn’t, as far as Dean can tell. Winchester hasn’t even brought up what Sam did back at the center.

“Look,” Winchester says, and Dean snaps back to attention. Sam looks up too, reluctantly, and Winchester goes on. “I just drove twelve hours, and I spent last night digging up two graves. First sign of you two starting anything, I’ll have you cuffed again. You in the bathroom, you in the closet. I don’t take backtalk or stupid shit but I’m in no mood to fight. You shower if you want, sleep anywhere in the room. I don’t give a fuck. But if you touch the weapons, I’ll know.”

“Yes sir,” says Dean. He looks over at Sam, prompting.

“Yes sir,” says Sam, real quiet. Good. At least the kid has enough sense not to get himself cuffed in a closet when he could have a shower and a bed.

Winchester grunts in acknowledgement, then kicks off his boots and lays his jacket over a chair. He gets into bed in his jeans.

And then Sam rubs his wrists, sitting down on the end of the second bed. “Freaking cuffs,” he says. “You wanna shower?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, but he doesn’t move. Just kinda stands there, looking around the room. He’s hungry, he realizes. They haven’t eaten since this morning. Meals at the center are at six and six; they must’ve been sold just before dinner. “Man, I could go for a burger.”

Sam looks at him drily. “With such a permissive new owner, I’m sure we can order in.”

“Shut up.” Dean’s stomach growls. He hasn’t had a decent burger in months. Maybe a year.

“If he lets us shower whenever we want, what’s one little credit card?” Sam’s in full-on sarcasm mode. “Hell, he’ll be letting you behind the wheel next, and then we’re set for life.”

“Shut up,” Dean repeats, a little louder this time but not too loud because waking Winchester up is the last thing he wants to do. “Go take your shower.”

Sam goes. Dean sits down on the bed and pulls off his sneakers and socks. It’s kinda cold in the room, the air bleeding through his thin white t-shirt. Damn the center for wanting cheap uniform stuff on everybody. He had warmer clothes before that, and jeans that fit right, too. But hey, showers won’t have to be all cold water now. As long as Sam doesn’t take forever, anyway.

He lays back on the bed, just to wait. Then he gets in it. Then he shuts his eyes.

Just while he waits.

Next thing he knows Sam’s poking him and saying something about the shower and dripping water from his hair onto the bed. Dean pushes at him and Sam pushes back and then Sam’s in the bed, wet hair and all.

“Guess I left you hot water for nothing,” says Sam. Dean rolls away from the damp spot on the pillow and goes back to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Alarm goes off and Dean sits bolt upright in the gray morning. Winchester’s getting out of bed, heading for the shower. Dean checks the clock. Five-thirty.

He shakes Sam awake, not too rough but not too gentle either. It’s no earlier than they’ve been getting up for the past six months; kid shouldn’t need waking by now. Sam fights it for a moment, but then something clicks on and he slides out from under the blanket, adjusting his jeans and running a hand through his hair.

“What’re we supposed to do?” he asks, in a bit of an undertone even though the shower’s running. “Make breakfast, make the beds, what? I swear if he wants us on our knees waiting for orders every morning—”

Dean considers. Kneeling’s safest but it’s not gonna do them any favors; Winchester seems like he’d rather have service than ceremony. They haven’t been told which duffel has food in it, and digging through the bags would just look bad. “Make the beds,” he says, finally. “Then wait for orders.”

Sam looks pissed, but he gets up and slips into his shoes. Dean does too, crossing over to the other bed. Not that Sam isn’t neater on a daily basis, but when Dean wants to, he can do military corners like nobody else. Besides, the less Sam calls attention to himself, the better.

He takes care evening out the sheets and tucking them in, then smoothes the wrinkles out of the blanket. Even takes the pillows out of the cases to plump them up, not that there’s much you can do for the pillows at motels like this. They just kinda stay in one place.

By the time Dean’s put the pillowcases back on and returned the pillows tidily to place, Sam’s finished with their bed. It looks good, even if it’s probably less precise in the hidden spots. But Winchester doesn’t seem the type to go looking for uneven sheets on slaves’ beds, just to pick a fight.

Or maybe he is, when he’s less tired. Who knows.

Sam’s already kneeling in the middle of the floor, hands behind his back and features arranged in a carefully-practiced expression—neutral, reserved, with just the barest hints of long-suffering condescension and resignation mixed in. Dean wants to elbow him in the ribs because it’s so freaking unbearable, but it usually slips past masters and trainers and guards and other people who have to be impressed, so he lets it be and eases himself to the carpet by Sam’s side. The shower turns off just as he does, too. They won’t have to wait long.

In the meantime, Sam’s stomach growls. Dean looks over at him and he flushes red.

“Hey,” says Dean. “No shame. Running twenty-four hours between meals’ll do that to a guy.”

Sam shakes his head. “It’s not that, Dean. I’m having those cramps—gotta use the bathroom.”

Dean’s lips press tight. Sam’s health is always touchy; it comes with the visions. But the stomach cramps fall into a pattern that usually means one is coming on. Which is good, because that’s what Winchester wants Sam for, presumably. But it’s bad, too, because the freaking things knock Sam on his back.

He doesn’t have time to ask questions, though, because Winchester’s coming out of the bathroom. They both get their shoulders squared and their heads bowed. Nice little picture they make, Dean thinks, in their uniform jeans and white tees. The slaves are showing off for you, dude, but don’t get used to it.

Winchester spends a moment bent over one of the bags, then notices them. When he comes over, he’s got papers, and he’s eating beef jerky and a dry bagel. Sam’s stomach goes off again. Perfect timing there.

Winchester is good at ignoring shit, though, looks like. “Which of you’s the psychic?” he asks.

“I am, sir.” Sam’s chin juts out a tad; Dean can see it out the corner of his eye.

“You get a lot of visions?”

“Once a week, maybe. Every two weeks.”

Winchester takes a bite off the bagel, swallows it, looks down at the paperwork. “You hone in on demons.”

“Yes sir.”

“I’m looking for a specific one. Yellow eyes. Ever see anything like that?”

“Not sure, sir.”

Winchester’s eyebrows lift. “What do you mean, you’re not sure?”

Sam shifts. “I mean I’ve had about a vision a week since I was eight. It’ll take me a bit to sort through them all. The ones I can remember, anyway.”

Dean bumps him, which isn’t appropriate behavior, but Sam’s veering far, far away from appropriate behavior. Not crossing lines, exactly, but not walking them either.

“Sir,” adds Sam. He bumps Dean back.

“That’s enough,” says Winchester. His voice doesn’t rise but it hardens and they both go still, because that’s a voice that means business. “So it’s Sam with the visions. And then Dean.”

“Yes sir.” Dean’s gonna behave; he’s gonna perform; he’s gonna make Winchester forget Sam ever said a word. This is all gonna work out _fine_ , God damn it.

“Any good with a gun?”

“Yes sir.”

“How good?”

“Only one clean shot I’ve missed since I was ten years old, and I was shooting a sawed-off left-handed.” The words slip out before Dean thinks. You big fucking idiot, he tells himself. First conversation and you go talking about the one thing you swore would never cross your lips again.

He hardly dares to look up, but he’s more afraid of not knowing, so he bites his lip and lets his eyes sneak to Winchester’s face. It’s hard, blank, and unreadable as ever. Dean hears Sam drawing uneven breaths.

“To kill your master.”

The statement hangs in the air. Dean’s not sure if he’s meant to answer it, but then Winchester’s crossing over to him and pulling up his jaw.

“You take responsibility for your actions, you hear me?” His grip’s like iron, even though Dean’s not fighting; Dean hates to think what struggling against this guy would look like. “You do something wrong, you pull back your shoulders and you damn well own it. You try to kill a man, you square up and take what you get! You acknowledge what you did.”

“Yes sir,” says Dean, and he feels a swell of—he doesn’t know. Shame, but pride too, and an urge not to break or beg or bitch but to take what he deserves, and be strong enough for this man to tell him he deserves something better. It’s a weird feeling. But it’s better than the crap the center pushes and it makes him feel like he can be something. Him. Dean. Even though he’s a slave.

Winchester backs off. “You wanted to kill your master,” he says again, and this time Dean knows he has to answer.

“Yes sir,” he says, and he knows he did it for a good reason but he wishes he hadn’t, wishes he’d been better. Smarter. There was no other way, but the way he took still wasn’t acceptable.

Winchester takes a deep breath and Dean thinks, okay, he’s thinking of a punishment. That’s good. Not that the center didn’t work him over when he and Sam got sent there after, but Dean had been smartass about it, hadn’t learned anything. Even though it hurt. A lot.

But Winchester doesn’t announce a punishment. “Later,” he says, and Dean gets a little antsy but he can deal with that, too. “You’ve worked hunts? Know monsters, their habits, their weaknesses?”

“Yes sir.”

“Latin?”

“No sir.” He hesitates just a second. “Sam knows it, though.”

Winchester looks back at Sam, and Dean follows his gaze. Sam’s oh-so-careful neutral expression has slipped off. He’s got his jaw clenched, now.

“How much Latin?” asks Winchester.

“Ten years,” says Sam, tersely. “Church and classical. Exorcisms, Vergil, whatever you want. Haven’t had a chance to practice in six months, though.”

“You’ll need to brush up.”

“What I need is the bathroom. Sir.”

And then Winchester’s face goes dark. “You think a piss break is more important than this conversation?”

“No sir,” Sam starts, “it’s just—”

Winchester points to the floor. Sam lifts his eyebrows; they’re already kneeling, after all. Winchester sighs. “Drop and give me fifty,” he says.

Sam’s clearly considering saying something else. Dean bumps him again and Sam obeys, keeping his eyes glued to the floor while he does pushups as fast as he can. Winchester counts out loud, all the way up to fifty.

By the time it’s over Sam’s pale and sweating and shaking, too, a little. Winchester looks him over as he pushes himself back up to his knees.

“They told me you kept up with the exercise regimen,” he says. Scathing.

“I did,” Sam grits out. Which is true. Even with the visions, he’d still kept up; Dean had seen him. It just hadn’t looked fun.

“Then either the center has a weak-ass training program, or you can give me another fifty.”

“The center fed us sometimes,” says Sam. “And I can give you another fifty if you’d like me shitting in my only pair of pants, sir.”

Winchester backhands him. Dean can’t help flinching as he hears the snap and part of him flares up with anger, but another part is annoyed at Sam. If the kid could just learn to keep his mouth shut—

“Bathroom,” Winchester tells Sam. He snaps his fingers. “Out in five. PT after.”

Sam scrambles unsteadily to his feet and gets across the motel room fast as he can, slamming the bathroom door behind him. Dean offers Winchester an apologetic smile; Winchester waves him to his feet.

“I need to count on you,” he says. “Look, the only reason you’re here is because you used to be reliable on a hunt, before you went killer. That, and because I hear your brother’s easier to control when you’re around. Between you and me, I’m not sure I want to know what he’s like if you’re not around.”

Dean gives a tired smirk. “He can get worse, believe me. But I can handle him, sir, I promise. Keep us together, and I’ll get Sam to work with you. For you. He’s—he’s a good kid. Just needs to settle.”

Winchester nods, considering. “And if I don’t keep you together?”

Dean’s eyes flick upwards. The pride’s welling up in him again, and it seems to have misplaced the shame somewhere along the way.

“Well sir,” he says, “that’s when we get dangerous. And I won’t miss again.”


	3. Chapter 3

When Sam comes out of the bathroom, Dean’s doing pushups.

Sam hesitates in the doorway. Is Dean in trouble, too? Winchester’s not counting, just watching, but Sam still shivers. PT isn’t the worst kind of punishment, but it can go on forever, can happen anytime. It’s totally silent and leaves no marks. Not to mention how much harder it gets with the visions.

The fierce cramps in his gut have settled into a dull ache, though, so Sam figures he’ll be okay for a while. He goes back over.

“Sir?” he says.

Winchester looks him over again, appraising, then nods. “Daily PT,” he says. “Then we’ll get breakfast, and I’ve got a job to start on. Errands, too. So get busy.”

Sam obeys. He and Dean go through the exercises Winchester lays out; Winchester watches them and works on his computer, making notes in a journal and cutting clips from a newspaper as he does. Sam tries to lose himself in motion and awareness of his body the way Dean seems to. It doesn’t really work, but at least he gets through everything without much trouble. It’s not as hard as the routine at the center.

When they’re done, they steal a moment to stretch before reporting—on their feet this time; Dean looks like he’s gonna kneel but Sam glares at him because if they make it a habit now they’ll have to keep on with it forever. So they don’t kneel. Just put their hands behind their backs and wait to be noticed.

Winchester closes his computer and checks the laces on his boots. “Time for a run,” he says, and they follow him out. He locks the motel room, making sure to flash them a glimpse of the combination tracker and shocker he’s got in his hand. And then they all just run, down the sidewalk, Dean and Sam in front and Winchester behind them setting the pace. Sam drinks in the town around him, grocery stores and gas stations, normal people in their cars. Closes his eyes when he can so there’s nothing but the fall of his shoes on the concrete, and he can imagine he’s running for real.

That’s what this is for, he tells himself. That’s why he’s going to keep in shape, no matter what the visions pull on him. Because one day he’ll get his chance, and he’ll go. And then he’ll be glad to be strong.

After the run they get in the car and Winchester drives them out to a diner. Sam’s tentative, knowing the collars show a little above the necks of their t-shirts, but Winchester introduces them as his nephews and the waitress winks at Dean. When she asks for their orders, Sam and Dean both hesitate, but Winchester looks annoyed. “You think I’m gonna hold your hands?” he asks. “Sorry, ma’am, they’re farm kids. Don’t get out that much.”

But Sam doesn’t have trouble picking once he knows he can. He has pancakes, and they’re amazing. Dean eats sausage and toast, and flirts with the waitress. If Winchester cares, he doesn’t let on.

Next it’s second-hand clothes. Winchester stops the car in front of the store, but he doesn’t park, just hands them each a twenty and motions for them to get out. “Back in half an hour,” he says. “Get what you need and make sure it’ll last.”

“Yes sir,” says Dean. He elbows Sam.

“Yes sir,” says Sam. He doesn’t mind this time. They’re getting out of the car by themselves. They’re going to a store by themselves. They’ll be somewhere without a locked door or someone watching.

As soon as they get in the door, he swallows hard and nudges Dean. “Now,” he says, in an undertone.

“Dude,” says Dean. “No.”

“Yes!” Sam protests. Everything in him is rising up, revolting, thrilling at the openness. “When are we gonna get this chance again?”

“Well, never, if we make a bust for it now,” Dean points out. He grabs a red plaid shirt off the rack and holds it up, guessing at the size. “He’s still got the tracker, Sam; he’ll know if we leave.”

“So we’ll keep on the move until we can get the collars off.” Sam picks up a yellow flannel shirt. It’s the right size, looks warm, and only costs two dollars, so he decides it’s a good option.

“Yeah,” says Dean, “and do you know how to do that? I didn’t think so.”

“But,” Sam says.

“Drop it,” says Dean.

Sam drops it. They each pick up a few shirts, another pair of jeans, and some socks. Sam scores a pair of shoes, which he needs because his are too small and giving him blisters. Dean grabs a jacket they can share. When they finish up and head out, Sam sees Winchester’s car.

It hasn’t moved an inch.

“Good thing we didn’t go, huh,” Dean mutters.

Sam sighs. His stomach cramps are getting bad again, and the headache’s starting to come on. He’s not sure how many more tests he can deal with today.

\----

Winchester said earlier he had errands to run and a job to start on, so Sam expects them to keep driving around town. He’s wrong, though. The next stop is back at the motel.

“Dean,” Winchester says. He holds out a newspaper and the second motel key. “I’m trusting you, understand? Don’t leave the room. Comb through this for any mention of a Miranda Jacobs or a Macon Street Dental Care. Could save somebody’s life.”

“Yes sir,” says Dean, and Sam tries to make eye contact with him. Tries to beam thoughts into his brain about escape preparation and checking routes out the windows and inspecting his collar. But Dean won’t look at him. Just unclips his seatbelt and gets out, looking like Winchester’s giving him the moon.

“What about me?” Sam asks.

“You’re staying with me,” Winchester says. “Need you to play a role.”

Dean heads back to the motel with the bags of clothes, and Winchester beckons for Sam to move up to shotgun. Sam does, reluctantly.

“What if I won’t?” he says.

“You’ll wish you had,” Winchester says, shortly, as he pulls out of the parking lot. “And people will die. You think throwing a fit is worth that?”

“People die because they’re slaves, too,” Sam says. “You think your hunt is worth participating in that?”

Winchester throws him a terrifying look, then screeches onto the side of the road. “Listen,” he says. “You are a means to an end, you understand? You are here because I want you here, and you are going to do your damn job or I will get rid of you.”

“My brother—” Sam starts. It’s his only card.

“And your brother.” Winchester is staring a hole in Sam’s face. “I could shoot you both and no one would ever come looking. As it is, you’re getting a good belting for that backtalk. And if I see so much as a wrong look while we’re on the case, I’m taking it out on Dean’s ass. You want that?”

Sam bites his lip and tries to last, but the pressure’s too much. He drops his eyes from his master’s. “No sir.”

“Good.” Winchester eases off the brake, gets back on the road. “So here’s the cover...”

\----

Winchester is halfway through his questions for the hygienist who’s cleaning Sam’s teeth when the headache really starts to build. He can’t wince away from her fingers, from the lights and the smells, because Dean doesn’t deserve to get hit for anything Sam does, but he’s having a really hard time playing it cool.

And then she notices, breaking off from whatever she’s saying about a dead patient to smile at him super brightly. “You should have told me you have dental anxiety, honey.”

Sam grimaces. Yeah, he’s anxious. Winchester’s gonna make his brother pay for this, and he’s downright panicking. “Yeah,” he mumbles, looking away. “It’s just, you know. Kinda embarrassing. Sorry.”

“Hey, no problem!” She pats his shoulder. “Gonna take good care of you, okay? We’re almost done.”

“All right,” he says. It’s the other guy he’s worried about.

“Miss Sheffield,” Winchester picks up, “you were saying about what you saw in the mirror?”

“Oh!” she says, and picks up again with the story—something about a ghost—as she picks up the fluoride. Sam breathes a sigh of relief. His head is pounding, blood vessels thick and hot, and he knows the vision’s coming soon. He really doesn’t want to have it in a dental chair.

“Dentist is coming to check you out,” says the hygienist at last. “Thank you for listening, detective. I know you’re off duty here with your son.”

Winchester smiles. Sam looks away.

It’s as they’re heading down the hall after seeing the dentist that the headache spikes into unbearable, collapsing pain. “Vision,” Sam whispers, and Winchester pushes him into the bathroom. Sam sinks down onto the cool tile and watches the images flash.

Black eyes. Failed exorcism. Devil’s trap, splitting open. River Valley Morgue. Two bodies. Toe tag reading Chris Walker.

He breathes in at last, but keeps his eyes closed. The blessed darkness keeps him safe, just for a moment.

Then Winchester’s shaking him. His brain rattles against his skull and the words don’t make sense at first. After a moment, though, they come clear. “What did you see? What did you see?”

Sam drags his eyes open. “River Valley,” he says. “A morgue, a town called River Valley? And an exorcism, it was right, but it wasn’t working. The devil’s trap broke.”

“Yellow eyes?” Winchester demands.

Sam shakes his head. “Black.”

Winchester lets go of him, and he slumps back against the bathroom wall. “A name, too,” he says, before he forgets. “Recent death. Chris—Chris Walker.”

Winchester gets up. “Come on,” he says. “Soon as we finish this hunt, we’ll find that one.”

Sam grits his teeth and tries to get up. His legs wobble under him.

“What’s wrong with you?” Winchester demands.

“Sorry,” Sam says. His mouth is dry, the words flat. “Sorry, sir. The visions, they’re. They hurt. Usually a two day build-up, one or two days after.”

Winchester stares at him. “You said you get them once a week? Every two weeks?”

Sam nods.

“You’re out of commission almost half the time? Christ.” Winchester shakes his head. “Hope you weren’t expecting me to baby you, because that ain’t happening.”

“No sir,” says Sam.

“Don’t think this gets you out of the belt.”

“Yes sir,” says Sam. He’s too tired to argue anymore.


End file.
